An American in Paris
by twitchytwain
Summary: A little Bamon fluff composed of cafes and Paris from A-Z. Damon is a barista at a liitle coffee shop on Rue de Rivoli that Bonnie likes to visit every Tuesday while studying in Paris.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** An American Girl in Paris

 **Summary** : A little Bamon fluff composed of cafes and Paris from A-Z

~~~~oOo~~~~

 **ANGEL**

~~~oOo~~~

Fall in Paris, the leaves have changed to burnt ochre, the air is crisp and love is in the air.

There's a small café on Rue de Rivoli next to Angelina's, just across the Louvre museum where a young American sits. She goes there every Tuesday for the latte, at least that's what she tells herself. She can smell the warm croissants and lusty hot chocolate wafting from Angelina's but she doesn't care because this is her favourite place in the world. It's a small place where they write the menu on a wooden framed chalkboard and she sits hurdled in a rust velvet wing chair in a corner with a tattered book in her hand. She blissfully flips a page, smelling the crispness of the book but her eyes stay locked onto the barista as he moves behind the counter and her lips dare to edge into a smile behind the cover of her book. She tries to keep her composure whenever she's around him but the butterflies in her stomach still rage every time he steals a glance in her direction. She saw his eyes once, close up. They were blue like the blue forget-me-nots growing in the garden on her balcony.

There's a soft glow to him as he makes the latte, warm and ethereal like the city itself. She twirls the ends of her ponytail around her dainty fingers, watching as he glides from table to table before dancing toward her own table. They never exchange words, no conversation because words are trivial especially when she has to invent them because she is quite certain that he speaks a different language. He is too divine to speak human and she fears what ever promises she could relate with her words would be lost in translation.

When he leans over to set her cup on the table in front of her, she presses her nose against his sleeve, just ever so slightly. He smells like freshly washed alpaca blankets, burning cinnamon, smouldering cigarettes and too much wine. As he moves away from her table, she lifts her cup to take a sip but before she can enjoy his creation, her eyes take in the art that he has drawn in her latte.

It's an angel with a halo.

She smiles and takes a moment to appreciate their language and the insignificance of words between the two of them.

~~~~oOo~~~~

 **BEE**

~~~~oOo~~~~

Seven days later, she leans her bicycle against the wall of the café, her sneakers slapping against the cobblestone as she rushes inside for her weekly cup before her classes start. Its morning and sunlight spills into the room making the macaroons on the counter dazzle like Persian gemstones.

"Name?" he asks, his marker poised over the cup after she makes her order. It's the first time he's asked her that, it's the first time they have spoken and his accent is distinctly Italian and this makes her mind churn.

"Bonnie" she tells him and watches as he writes her name down on the label wrapped around the paper cup.

"Actually, it's Bonnie with two n's" she corrects him, knotting her scarf beneath her chin. A slow smile spreads across his lips and he rakes a hand through his dark tousled hair. Suddenly she wants to be that hair, she wants to be every strand that he caresses with his hand, to tickle his temples, to stroke the nape of his neck as his hair does. She wants to be that hand, to know that hand, to trace every line and own his hands like he would vow to own her hands.

"There you go, Bonnie with two n's" he smiles as he hands her the latte and she tries not to melt when his hand brushes against hers. The sigh of her name from his lips is a warm murmur that drapes around her like honey dripping off his saccharine tongue. Stepping out of the warmth of the café, hand shielding her eyes from the wintry sunlight, she looks down at her cup and beams when she sees the new drawing floating on top of her latte.

Today he's given her a bee.

~~~~oOo~~~~

 _A/N: Hope you enjoyed. Any suggestions for the letter C from Damon's POV?_


	2. Chapter 2

~~~~oOo~~~~

 **CAT**

~~~~oOo~~~~

It's a Monday when he thinks he spots Bonnie with two n's as he strolls along the banks of Canal St. Martin with his dog. It's a yellow Labrador he's had for seven months and even though he'd never care to admit it, he loves nothing better than to sit at home drinking a glass of wine on the couch with the dog's paws resting on his lap. He's not quite sure if it is truly Bonnie through the swarm of people but he follows tentatively and quietly, like an amateur detective or a stalker.

She strolls past a pet shop, her books pressed against her chest, and her messenger bag swinging from her right arm before she stops, backtracks and stares at the inside of the shop from a window. With her palm pressed against the glass, she stands and stares for what seems like forever to Damon and then quickly and with great urgency, she moves on and disappears inside the many hidden passageways that make up Paris.

He takes his last drag from the cigarette and flicks the butt off into a nearby graffiti trash can. Not willing to give any further thought to her strange behaviour, he enters a bakery, his shoulder brushing past an elderly man unwrapping a bar of chocolate. He smiles gleefully as he takes his first bite and Damon smiles along with him. Picking up a baguette that his dog has sniffed, he pays for it along with a jar of olives and then steps outside, shoving his left hand inside his coat pocket. With the baguette under his arm and his right hand holding the leash, he strolls south and walks past the same pet shop Bonnie had passed. An intense desire to stop consumes him and overpowers any resolve he thought he had and like Bonnie he backtracks so that he may look inside the window. He raises one eyebrow and one corner of his lips when he beholds the kittens in the window. He didn't figure her for a cat person but then he recalls the graceful manner she slinks around the café, the way she curls herself into a ball in her favourite wing chair as she devours her books in a quiet corner. A tiny kitten with big green eyes licks her paws, cocking her head to the side as she looks up at him and suddenly it all makes sense to Damon.

~~~~oOo~~~~

Bonnie sits in dappled sunlight, her green eyes following the barrister from behind her book as he weaves his way through the tables outside the café. Today the terrace is drenched in sunlight and there's a new buzz as Parisians take to the bistros for their lunch breaks. She tilts her face to the sun to feel its warmth rush over her cheeks but it's the cold warmth of fall. A clatter of pigeons climbing toward the sky startles her and her eyes flutter open.

A man sitting across from her is taking out a pen from his pocket and he begins to sketch her on his paper napkin as Bonnie observes him curiously. There's a woman in a sparkling black shirt who sits across from the sketching man with a cigarette in her left hand. She glances up from her newspaper every so often to steal a glimpse at the artist and smiles nervously at him even though he doesn't return her gaze.

"C'est l'amour" the barista says as he sets Bonnie's latte down in front of her. She follows his gaze to the sketch artist and the woman admiring him from afar. Today he smells like freshly baked bread, warm cinnamon with a hint of cigarette smoke. Her breath hitches just as he moves away from her, his smell lingering around her long after he leaves. Bonnie's eyes fall to the cup and her face blooms into a warm smile.

It's a foamy cat climbing out of the cup.

She teases the foam with her index finger and touches it to her tongue. Slowly, her eyes lift to seek him behind the counter and the lusty sensuality of the cream washes over her like an orgasm. The minute the word seeps into her mind, it clings and coils itself around her, stroking her like a sumptuous heat.

As she lifts the cup to her lips with her eyes watching him over the rim, her smile grows wider and she drops her gaze back to the dainty saucer. Today he's placed a chocolate cookie on her saucer. With another cheerful smile on her face, she picks the crunchy cookie from the saucer and does the most peculiar thing. Bonnie wraps the cookie softly inside a napkin and slips it inside her messenger bag.

~~~~oOo~~~~

 **DANDELIONS**

~~~~oOo~~~~

She passes a stack of wicker chairs piled into a corner at closing time; a busboy sweeps the floor and dances with the broom while the waiters clear the tables and snuff out the candles on the tables. Suddenly she wants to be that couple who sits inside this café with candle-dripped wine bottles as they enjoy their dinner. She wants to discuss Hemmingway under the glow of candlelight until the candles burn out and they close the café. Bonnie can almost hear the music his broom bristles make as they stroke the floor and she smiles, yielding to the beckoning sounds. He sways to the melody of the broom bristles and the clatter of glasses, twirls the broom in his hands and dips it before pulling it up again to twirl around the floor.

It's a lovely dance, ringed with enough nostalgia to break her heart. As she crosses the street to head towards the metro to catch the train home, she thinks she spots the barista outside a bistro enjoying what she presumes to be his last glass of red wine with a yellow Labrador sitting at his side. She yearns to go to him, to cross the street and shed her fears. She longs to take a chance, to sit with him in deep conversation until those candles burn into stubs. She doesn't go to him however, because she's just a little girl trying to find herself in Paris.

Four days later, it's the same ritual and she finds herself riding her bicycle past vine smothered buildings with the warm sun on her face. She parks her bicycle, puts a lock on it and proceeds to enter the café. She does pause however when she sees the same Labrador from the bistro tied up on a leash outside the café. Pushing the door open, the _open_ sign flutters in the crisp breeze and she waits for another customer toting four cups of cafe au lait to walk out before she steps inside.

" _Bonjour_ " she waves awkwardly to the barista behind the counter and he looks up, a dish cloth in his hand as he wipes the counter top. He looks soft, warm, and ethereal and she's not sure if it's the light from the window bathing him or if it's a light emanating from inside him.

" _Salut! Ca va_?" he asks, preparing her latte.

" _Très_ _Bien_ " Bonnie nods and holds her breath. She drums her fingers on the counter top, her eyes darting between the cup and her fingers as her heart pounds inside her chest. Finally she opens her mouth, and the words tumble out.

"Cute dog, is he yours?" she stammers and bites her bottom lip.

The barista cranes his neck and looks outside as if to check for the existence of said dog before he replies, " _Oui_ "

He hands her the labelled takeaway cup, his fingers barely grazing her skin and fleetingly she closes her eyes to savor the sensation. As brief as the moment is, it leaves her giddy and mesmerized as she walks outside into the brimming narrow sidewalks. She leans against a wrought iron street lamp and opens the lid of her latte, staring into the creamy drawing floating on top of her latte.

It's a dandelion.

With a smile, she takes her first sip before glimpsing back over her shoulder to see if he's watching her from the window. He isn't because he's quite oblivious to her existence, she thinks as she climbs onto her bicycle.

~~~~oOo~~~~

 _A/N: Thanks so much for the feedback and the amazing review guys, you had me blushing. Okay, so words used from your amazing contributions: Cat, Café au Lait, chocolate and cream. The idea of the game is that the first letter of the alphabet represents whatever Damon draws in Bonnie's latte. The drawings will symbolize the growth in their relationship._


	3. Chapter 3

~~~~oOo~~~~

 **EIFFEL TOWER**

~~~~oOo~~~~

On a Sunday he sees her around the square with the Eiffel tower looming above them. She's weaving her way through a cluster of people huddled under umbrellas and newspapers but her hair is dripping wet, her feet stumble over each other and she has a set of books clasped to her wet chest. Damon flags her down and offers her a ride on his motorbike, it's not a car so it doesn't offer much shelter from the rain but he's got a helmet for her head.

He stays upstairs, right on top of the café.

They wind up the flight of stairs and she trails behind him, her eyes tracing the curl at the nape of his neck. She wants to lose herself in the riddle of his hair and hide there forever. She counts the small freckles splattered on the back of his neck, they're so delicate like a constellation of stars and suddenly she wonders if he tastes salty or musky. Bonnie wets her bottom lip, feeling the smooth coolness of the metal railing beneath her clammy palm. As if sensing her gaze on his neck, Damon rubs it with his hand but he doesn't turn around to look at her.

She stares at the back of his head as he opens the door but as soon as he ushers her inside, her eyes go from his head to track the interior of his apartment. His dog runs towards them as soon as the door swings open and Damon kneels down to scratch the area between his ears. She smiles at this picture before diving back to discover his nature by searching his apartment. He has one small but comfortable couch strewn with magazines and a small blanket, a coffee table with cooking books and a cold cup of coffee and a very orderly kitchen that smells like freshly baked cookies. Rain soaked air wafts in from his open window and she can see the Louvre museum's glass pavilion through the drizzle.

"You should get out of those wet clothes." He says, the calmness in his voice startling her. It's all too sudden, it's all too rushed. She's in his apartment, standing inside his bedroom, her eyes raking over his bed with its tangled sheets. She can see some fur lining the white, fur shedding from his dog she assumes as she slowly unbuttons her shirt. He's already left the bedroom and she heard the soft click as the door closed behind him. Once she's in her bra and cotton panties, she walks around his bedroom to study his history. He has a framed picture of him and his dog sitting on his nightstand next to another half fished cup of coffee and empty glass of wine. There's a faint smell of cigarettes and her eyes wander to the empty ashtray on his nightstand. Her hands travel the fabric in his closet and she presses her nose against his shirts to absorb his scent.

There are days when she thirsts for his smell, his kiss, clings to the idea of it until it merges with her memories to such a delicious point that she's convinced that it's not a fantasy but rather a memory that has hidden itself in the recesses of her mind.

"The water's boiling" he tells her when she has exited his bedroom. She's dressed in his robe, damp hair tickling her shoulders. The patter of rain against his window and the whistle of his kettle make her feel settled like she's finally anchored to something. The smell of his apartment is comforting like oven warm bread and flannel shirts. She takes a lungful of air and smiles at him, a blush painting the apples of her cheeks.

~~~~oOo~~~~

He wants to live in her smile.

Some days she reminds him of a flower with her face turned up as the sun bathes over her and her wisps of hair, light as dandelions in the fall breeze. He stands quietly for a moment merely watching her as she discreetly studies his apartment. She looks warm, soft and rosy from the shower and the sight of her in his space thrills and settles him at the same time. He fills her cup, glancing over his shoulder to ask her something and he notices her picking up one of his bills from the coffee table. She quietly studies the address written on the letter and swings her eyes up at him, a smile lighting up her face.

"Your name's Damon Salvatore" she exclaims, her fingers hovering over the paper. With a nod, he hands her the cup and watches intently as she thrills to the image in her latte.

It's a glistening Eiffel tower and they both trace its lines with their eyes before lifting them to each other.

~~~~oOo~~~~


	4. Chapter 4

~~~~oOo~~~~

 **FAIRY**

~~~~oOo~~~~

She's grown accustomed to the sound of his name and she recites it like a warm prayer within the confines of her apartment when she's buttering a croissant, folding her laundry or reading poems by Marcel Bealu but her lofty pleas find strength in the margins of her bedroom walls where they grow wings.

Damon Salvatore, she whispers and the evening breeze seems to carry the words to him. She wonders about what he is doing, who he is lying with, she wonders about his dreams and prays that he dreams about her as much as she thinks about him. She wants to lie in bed with him with their feet intertwined like the roots of an oak tree. She wants to build a new world with him where they spend each hour, each moment climbing into each other's arms, each other's lips because that's where heaven resides.

Damon Salvatore, she prays as her eyelids flutter to sleep.

The following Tuesday she makes her way to his café with a book of fairy tales in her hand and hope in her eyes. She watches as he weaves between the tables, drifting like smoke and she waits, bends to his will whenever he glances her way because whenever he looks at her, she dissolves into his soul. She doesn't expect much because she's learnt to accept the morsels but every now and then when he looks right at her, she sees the Louvre and a misty rain and she knows that this is it, that he's the one.

Slowly, Damon saunters toward her, a flicker of a smile on his face as he sets a cup of latté in front of her. She's suddenly conscious of his breathing, his thriving, thrilling heartbeat and the sound of him being so alive makes her feel alive. Lifting her eyes, she meets his gaze and for a moment everything feels quantum timeless and epic. She exhales and he inhales, the yin to her yang even if his eyes don't recognise it yet.

"Merci, Damon" she whispers before her gaze drops to her cup. There, sketched on her latte is a fairy with fluttering wings. As he drifts back to the front of the café to tend to other customers, Bonnie casts her eyes on the saucer and sees a small lilac envelope. She picks up the envelope and brings it to her nose as if to smell him because his fingertips have traced the very corners that her fingers are now tracing. She maps the envelope with her nose, her lips, and her breath nearly burning the paper. Sliding a finger underneath the flap, she opens the envelope and pulls out a ticket to a Midsummer Night's Dream play at the park. Lifting her eyes back up to seek him amongst the throngs of people inside the café, she nods vehemently as her face breaks into a wide smile.

And just this once, he smiles back and his smile lights up her universe.

~~~~oOo~~~~

 _A/N: Again, thank you for all the love and support my lovelies and now it will be on to the letter 'G'_


	5. Chapter 5

..

 **GARDENIAS**

..

There is a bounce to her step today as she moves around her apartment in her white briefs and white cotton bra. She skips past her unmade bed with its rumpled sheets and lays out her dresses on each and every surface in her bedroom.

Today she has a date with the barista. Today she has a date with Damon Salvatore.

She holds her hair out to the side, sweeping it over her shoulder in order to look like an old Hollywood starlet because she thinks that he might fancy it that way. It might make her look older and more glamourous than she feels. When she leaves her apartment, the glint of her necklace in the dazzling sunlight, the coy flirt of her dress and the sway of her hips as she dances down the street turns heads. The train ride is quick, effortless and she wears a smile during the entire trip.

She meets him outside the café and counts her footsteps in her head as she approaches him. He distorts time doesn't he? The languid way he moves in his low slung jeans, the sliver of skin around his taut stomach as he leans over to pick up his helmet and the unhurried way he rakes his fingers through his shock of dark curls.

He's beautiful.

He looks up, smiles a perfumed smile and her heart pounds against her ribcage.

"Salut." He greets and hands her another helmet.

"Bonjour." She nods, returning his smile.

He straddles the seat and holds the bike upright as she climbs behind him. Sunlight falls through leaves as they weave through traffic with her holding on tightly to him. When they arrived at the Luxembourg gardens, the sky seems bigger and the air is crystal clear. She takes in the sights from the washed gravel beneath their feet, old men playing boules to children sailing boats in the pond. There's a buzz in the air and clumps of people even though the trees are bare against the sky and a chill bites their cheeks.

She catches the tail end of a wedding as a photographer adjusts a bride's dress for photos. The bride hands her bouquet, a small arrangement of gardenias to one of her bridesmaids and turns to smile for the camera.

..

Damon unfurls a blanket under a canopy of trees and they weigh it down with a picnic basket before stretching out on top of it. He extends his hand to help her and as she joins him on the blanket, barely an inch from him, her thigh brushes his thigh. It's not flesh against flesh but it's enough to leave a burn, a slow spiral of smoke that rises in the space between them.

He pops open the red lid of a cake tine and pulls out apple chaussons then asks about her story where she is from and what she is doing in Paris. She tells him that she's from Chicago, that she came to Paris to study art history but she doesn't tell him about the magic she's searching for, the fantasy she is yearning. He in turn speaks at length about his life in Italy and his journey to Paris.

Stretched out in the sun, they listen to the play but her mind is not on the stage. It stays locked onto him. Far far away, the music churns, the cheers, the songs and voices fill the air but her only focus is Damon. She listens to the hum of his skin, the scent of it, its texture, the light playing hide and seek across it and is smothered by her senses.

When he lifts his glass to his lips she imagines his kiss tastes like nectar. His lips are as red as fruit and they remind her of a bowl of strawberries. She envisions his tongue folding into her mouth, his fingers tearing into her flesh like a starving man devouring a piece of fruit.

This is the beauty of beginnings, she thinks as she chases the fire of his skin with her eyes. A roar of applause jolts her back to the present to the sound of Damon clapping his hands. She joins the applause and her eyes swing back toward the stage. The first act morphs into second and as the sunlight flakes away, Damon picks up a misted bottle of champagne from a silver ice bucket and refills their glasses.

She seizes her glass and raises it boldly for a toast.

"What shall we toast to?" he laughs, seemingly amused by her naiveté.

"L'amour." She smiles as a slight breeze lifts her hair.

..

On the way home, they stop at a café and he orders them two lattes while she waits at a table outside with his jacket draped around her shoulders. When he emerges from the café he holds out a cup for her which she eagerly accepts. He gestures to an empty table but she shakes her head, it's late and she needs to catch a train home. So they cross the street to his parked bike, laughing and talking beneath the splendor of lamps illuminating the street and she pops open the lid of her latte to find a floating design of creamy gardenias. She breaks into a smile and hugs the cup before taking her first sip.

..

Under the flicker of fluorescent lights she can see the tremors of his long eyelashes as he lowers his head to hers. She shivers in anticipation, her lips parting, her eyes closing and hoping for the tiniest taste of him, eager for the color and the rhythm of his kiss.

Would his kiss dissolve her? Would it restore her?

"Bonne nuit" his voice is as soft as a caress, warm against her cheek. She waits, listening to the beating of his heart as it drowns out security announcements over the intercom. When she doesn't feel the touch of his lips, she opens her eyes and catches him as he pulls back.

"Au Revoir." She smiles and steps inside the train, watching as the sliding doors close between them.


End file.
